


Drown It Out

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, POV Third Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Blasting music through his trusty headphones fails to get Dean's mind off the Mark of Cain, so she steps in.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49





	Drown It Out

Dean had excused himself from the Bunker’s library at barely 9 PM, and she _knew_. 

But she’d decided to let it slide--for a little while.

In the eldest Winchester’s absence, she and Sam continue Googling, reading, and exchanging calls with Cass. After two hours of bupkis, her cramping fingers hammer out one last search. 

“Guess we have to visit Dr. Fields,” she concludes.

Half-asleep, Sam squints. “Who?” 

She swivels her laptop so he can scope out the webpage. “Dr. Fields. She’s a professor at the University of Missouri. Appears to be the most elite expert on ancient curses within a 500-mile radius.”

Sam sighs. “So, that’s how long of a drive...?” His thumb drums the page of an open book while he does the mental math. “Six hours?” 

“Four with Dean drivin’.” 

Sam chuckles, thinking he should’ve factored in that variable. “She have office hours tomorrow?”

“Yep. Tuesdays and Thursdays from 10 to noon,” she delivers with a grin.

“That’ll work.” Sam shuts his laptop with a yawn. “I’m gonna hit it, then.” He stands and pivots his spine, stretching. “Do you want me to--”

She shakes her head and rises from her seat. “Nah, I’ll get him up.” 

As per usual, she doesn’t allow one of her best friends to escape for the night without a hug. Her cheek to his chest, she mutters, “See ya in the AM.”

Sam gladly returns her embrace. “Night.” 

She wastes five minutes tidying her workspace to ensure Sam has retired to his room. Once satisfied, she ventures down the corridor. 

Her knuckles rap to the left of the metallic “11” on Dean’s door. No answer. As expected. 

Gingerly, she rotates the knob and peeks inside.

Bathed in low, soothing light, he’s in the middle of his memory-foam mattress. Tense shoulders use the headboard for support. Long, curved legs stretch out in cozy sweatpants. Crossed arms guard his chest. Headphones drown out anything and everything. 

Including her entrance.

She travels to the foot of his bed without him being any the wiser. Prepared to hate herself for startling him, she gently settles her palm on his shin.

Dean’s eyes fly open, and he shoves the headphones from his ears. 

“Hey,” she breathes, sitting next to his knee. “I wanted to check on you.”

The way his body language changes--it’s like tearing away a dark, heavy curtain and revealing a tranquil lakeshore. It makes her stomach lurch.

Once again, Dean can’t believe she cares _this much_. His mouth goes dry as he searches for a reply that adequately expresses his appreciation, but also is not telling.

She hears the song playing in his headphones, but it’s too muffled to pinpoint the beat. With a nod toward the notes, she guesses, “Zeppelin?”

“Zeppelin.”

Their mutual grins glow brighter than any lamp in the room.

Dean removes the headphones from around his neck, disconnects them, and lays them on his nightstand. With the lack of music, he registers the slight sting singing from the brand just below the hinge of his elbow. He yanks down the sleeve of his Henley until it reaches his wrist, effectively covering his arm, his shame.

She scoops up his right hand and holds the back of it to her heart. “What can I do?”

His request is quiet, humble, and honest. “Stay.”

She answers with a quick kiss to his scarred knuckles, and his pulse stutters. She taps his leg. “Move over?”

As she settles into _his bed_ , his gaze never leaves her. They’ve shared countless motel mattresses, but this is different. So very different. She adjusts the single pillow, and, sticking to one side, rests her head upon it. 

The way she’s looking up at him-- _waiting_ on him--intensifies his trance. Slowly, mechanically, he slides further down the bed, and touches his temple to the pillowcase. 

There is maybe eight inches between their faces--between their _lips_ , they each silently note.

“Hi,” she whispers, using the lame greeting to suppress her nerves over the new, unidentified energy in the room. 

Failing to get an adequate supply of air in his lungs, Dean inhales deeply. The fresh scent of her conditioner hitting him only makes things worse. 

He’s clearly wound tight, so she keeps her voice low. “You need to try and relax.”

Dean scoffs, snapping out of it. “How can I?” The thin cotton material of his shirt no longer feels like enough of a shield, so he places his palm on top of the Mark. She adds her hand, and he considers pulling away. Absurd as it is, he’s afraid any contact with the brand could taint her. 

“It doesn’t own you, Dean,” she attempts to assure him.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” He swallows. 

Her heart rate speeds up, but _she’s_ sure of one thing. “You’re a _good_ man. You’ve gotta hold on to that.”

Dean meets her gaze. “You don’t know what’s in my head.” He breathes unsteadily. “If you did, you’d run.”

“Thoughts aren’t actions, Dean. I’ve been around for ten years now. I’ve seen the things you’ve _done_ , the people you’ve saved.” She squeezes his hand. “ _I know you_. And I love you.”

It’s not the first time she’s said those three words. She’s always been affectionate with him, Sam, and Cass. But when uttering that phrase to _Dean_ , she finds herself wondering more and more in which context she means it.

Dean’s certain her words are spoken with friendly intent, but hearing them makes it so much harder to ignore that he’s fallen for her. His brow creases as he tries to send those feelings to the same lock box that stores everything else threatening to pull him under.

Concerned, she lifts her hand to cup his cheek. Her thumb sweeps over his stubble. His eyelids flutter closed, and, goddamn, he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything. 

Soon, her fingers migrate to his hair. The blunt scraping of her nails along his scalp covers him in goosebumps. He clamps his mouth shut before he does something embarrassing, like moan. 

Under her spell, there’s a sense of safety, peace. The tension he’s retained for weeks departs. His tired muscles, unsure how to handle this newfound relief, begin to tremble.

“Honey, you’re _shaking_.” She exhales heavily. Without a second thought, she presses her torso into his. Her palm glides to the middle of his back and crushes him to her.

Her body is supple and warm against his, and it leaves him fucking _dizzy_. He succumbs and simply allows himself to be held.

It’s not until he remains fully still that she grants him some space. The previous eight inches that separated them are cut down to four. They’re practically nose-to-nose. She indulges in the close proximity by examining what could only be described as the “magnificence” before her. 

Fields of eyelashes frame and protect enormous emeralds that glint like sea glass in the summer sun. Freckles are sprinkled like lazy snow flurries on his tanned skin. Lush lips part like waking peony petals kissed by morning dew. 

Soft. Sweet. Beautiful.

The sheer _essence_ of Dean Winchester radiates a stark difference to the evil he dons.

“Doin’ a little better?” she finally speaks up.

He hums in response, surprisingly starting to drift off.

“Good.” 

Tucking the top of her head underneath his chin, she snakes her arm around his waist. And that’s all it takes for sleep to consume him.


End file.
